


You're My Heatless Summer

by Trotter



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, M/M, editor! Minho, get a grip on your feelings Jisung, manhwa artist! jisung
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trotter/pseuds/Trotter
Summary: Jisung's days have fallen into a routine: waking up to Minho's loud singing in the kitchen, chasing Minho as he ran around the lake. Coming back to their house to sit in the sun and talk for hours and hours.Now, if Jisung could find a way to stop yearning for more, things would be perfect.





	You're My Heatless Summer

**Author's Note:**

> (AU where Jisung is a famous manhwa artist in his early twenties and Minho is his editor, and they both move to the countryside for a month to fight Jisung's artist's block.)

Jisung wasn’t athletic by any means, but he was pretty darn competitive. When Minho started coming round on his own accord to challenge him to a race, he never said no, consigning himself to huffing and puffing for the 9-kilometre circuit around the lake that Minho preferred.

“You could’ve stayed at home,” Minho said, handing him a bottle of water.

“Shut up,” said Jisung, out of breath.

Minho shrugged and started humming, looking out over the gently rippling lake. It was early enough that the sun was a hint of orange and gold in the corner of his vision, picking out Minho’s profile in loving detail. Beads of sweat stuck to his pale skin.

An old, unwelcome thought bounced around in Jisung’s head:  _you’re beautiful._

“You stink,” he said out loud.  

Minho looked back at him, the distant look in his eyes fading to a playful smile. “And you’re ugly, but that’s not something a quick shower could fix, so sucks to be you.” He poked Jisung’s cheek. “Let’s pick something up from the store and eat together, yeah?”

Jisung stopped scowling. “Yeah.”

That sounded nice.

 

“You’re really good at this,” Jisung told him later. He took a big bite of the last sandwich and handed the rest to Minho. “It’s kind of unexpected.”

“I’m human, what’s so unexpected about it?”

“I didn’t mean eating, smartass,” said Jisung, irked. “I meant all  _this,”_ he gestured at the view of the lake from his back garden, the neatly-kept rows of sunflowers.  “This whole country life thing.”

Minho hmm’d. “I am a country boy, you know.”

Jisung  _hadn’t_  known. In the city Minho had been the sum of his quick wit, his boundless charm and his good looks. He was the ace of the editorial department, polished and efficient and ruthless, more hurricane than human.

The Minho he saw here spent an hour each day weeding and watering the garden. He sang to the flowers and listened, as if the flowers were singing back. If the Minho back home was an unattainable ideal, then the one he was seeing now was a dream, and either way: Jisung was so, so fucked.

“What would you have done if you stayed here?” Jisung asked, breath caught in his lungs.

“Me? I don’t really know,” Minho said. “But I probably would have opened a dance studio for little kids and pensioners. That would be fun.”

“It would,” Jisung agreed, picturing it: Minho was probably good with kids, good at getting them to listen. Back in the office Minho was the one everyone went to when Jisung was being uncooperative, and wasn’t that the same thing?

“Ah, but that’s not right.”

“What isn’t?”

Minho poked his cheek again, and Jisung scowled automatically. “Minho, what—”

“I would have come to the city no matter what. That’s where you are, isn’t it?”

Jisung’s breath whooshed out of his lungs.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” he said, laughing breathlessly, and wasn’t as troubled as he thought he would be when Minho didn’t reply.

 

Drawing manhwa wasn’t a rewarding enterprise. Neither was it a relaxing one; Jisung was always half-dead and all the way frustrated by the time Minho finished chatting with the neighborhood ahjussis and brought back the ingredients for their lunch.

“Minho-ssi,” Jisung whined, loping into the kitchen as Minho got the cutting board out. “What’s the worst that could happen if I never got out of this artist’s block?”

“You starve and die,” Minho said calmly. “You don’t really have the patience or the training for an office job.”

“I do have the training. I was an intern at a big publishing company for a year, and they made me permanent before I quit.” Jisung felt vaguely pleased by the way Minho looked up, eyes wide. “Surprised? I’m super smart, you know.”

“I never guessed,” Minho said, and Jisung thought, secretly:  _now you know what it’s like._  It felt like all Jisung had been doing since they came out here was get bowled over at every turn by how much of Minho he didn’t know. “It’s that you’re such an  _artist._ Proud, stubborn, hard to work with. I thought for sure you couldn’t hold down a normal day job.”

“What’s that supposed to mean—”

“I would have liked to see you back then,” said Minho, almost dreamily. “Han Jisung, intern, straight out of high school. I bet your cheeks were even cuter back then.”

Jisung hadn’t started working out till he was twenty-two, he remembered with a grimace. “I was chubbier,” he admitted. “And I wore these really ugly glasses, before I had that lasik surgery.”

“Adorable,” Minho cooed.

Jisung stared at him. “I’d have understood you even less that I do now, back then.”

“That’s okay,” Minho said. “That just means we met at the right time.”

“I can’t tell if you’re really smart or just talking out of your ass half the time.” Feeling bold, Jisung plopped his chin on Minho’s shoulder, peering at what he was doing. Chopping onions, apparently.

Minho’s hand came up, briefly, to brush across Jisung’s hair.

“I don’t really get you either, Jisung-ah,” he said, in the tones of someone confiding a secret. “But still, we match well together, don’t we?”

 

“We’ll need a bit more time,” Jisung heard Minho saying on the phone. “We’re not there yet.”

Jisung went hot and cold at once. “Head office?” he asked, as nonchalantly as possible when Minho came out into the living room. “What are those cold-hearted bastards saying?”

“They told us to take as much time as we’d like.” Minho sat down on the floor with him, cross-legged, and picked up Jisung’s mug of green tea. He smiled, and put it to his lips. “No rush.”

When he put the mug back down, Jisung kissed him.

Before Jisung closed his own eyes, he saw Minho’s eyes widen, then shut; he leaned into the kiss and his mouth was soft and warm, without a hint of hesitation or awkwardness.

The sunlight streamed in through the windows and they kept kissing and kissing.

Minho was the first to break away, panting softly. He leaned his forehead against Jisung’s.

“Okay?” Jisung asked, suddenly, belatedly nervous.

Minho laughed. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that for a very long time,” he said.

Jisung grinned recklessly, put a hand over Minho’s heart and found it thumping fast and flustered, just like it did in his dreams.

He wanted to draw about this.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Seventeen's Oh My. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
